


Art in the Blood

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artist Sherlock, Big Brother Mycroft, Confrontations, Dubious Cuddling, Humor, M/M, Mild Angst, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Smutty Doodles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: The often called upon edge of John’s jaw took shape, the dip of his chin, the thin slash of his mouth. Here Sherlock stopped to study a bit longer than was decent but with John asleep and none the wiser it was hard to curb the desire. The sun was coming up by the time he finished, the traffic growing heavy with morning commuters, even on a Sunday. Sherlock put the last fanning touch to John’s eyelashes, wishing he’d thought to buy colored pencils or charcoals to highlight John’s gold and silver hair, before closing the pad and tossing it on the table. John grunted at the noise but merely snuggled closer to the back of the sofa.If anyone saw Sherlock smiling softly at his flatmate the game would be up. Sherlock knew John would regret falling asleep as he was, twisted and still wearing his jacket, but he was loath to wake him just yet. Let them share the same quiet space for just a while longer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't finished a fic in like 9 months. Here y'all go. *tosses internet papers in the air*

Eyes. Eyes were notoriously hard and he was years out of practice. Not that he’d forgotten the tips and tricks of making a symmetrical face but it was one thing to know it and another to recreate it with slightly trembling fingers. It was slowly coming together though, in the quiet of Baker Street, nothing but the kick of the ancient furnace and the occasional taxi gone by to keep him company. John was out, as was his wont when the odd friend invited him for drinks and football on the telly. Normal things that normal people did on a Saturday night. Something to balance out the irregularity of their usual activities he supposed.

Sherlock’s hand cramped suddenly and he dropped the pencil to massage away the pain. A glance at the clock announced how late it had gotten, how long he’d been hunched over his own knees. John should have been home by now.

Just as he made to reach for his mobile, the downstairs door opened and closed, seventeen heavy and slightly listing steps later his flatmate appeared.

“You were out late. Time get away, did it?” Sherlock muttered, flipping to a different page and scooping his pencil from under the sofa.

“Sorry,” John said with a unwarranted giggle, “got talked into a round of trivia and then somehow karaoke.” He slapped a hand over his forehead. “God, I must’ve been drunker than I thought.”

“More drunk,” Sherlock corrected, letting a smile slip when John told him to piss off. It was meant in jest, obvious when John flopped down next to him on the sofa. Sherlock pulled his feet in a bit more so as not to allow them to touch.

“Could use a cuppa,” John mentioned to the ceiling, eyes closed.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and went back to his drawing.

A minute ticked by, Sherlock assumed John was nearly asleep and was almost ready to ignore the heat calling to his frosty toes, when John asked, “What’re you doing?”

He looked down at his incomplete rendition of the arterial spray from the Atwood triple murder and then up to John. “Doodling.”

He received a slight giggle at that. “Doodling,” John mimicked, unbelieving.

So Sherlock turned the book towards him to show what he’d managed.

“Oh,” John breathed, backing up and blinking at the page. “That’s actually, that’s quite good, Sherlock! I didn’t know you could draw. What am I saying, of course you can draw.”

“Of course,” he agreed, though he really had no idea why John would assume so.

John made to reach for the book but he pulled it back to his chest, terrified John would want to flip through it. He’d see the rest, and he couldn’t, he simply _could not_.

Instead of looking offended John sat back against the sofa and laughed. ”All right, I won’t smudge your doodle.” Sherlock let out a tiny breath of relief. Perfect, idiot John. “So is it for a case or were you just feeling creative?”

“Bored,” he admitted, which, technically was true, but not why he’d picked the drawing pad up to begin with. “This one was from memory, Atwood Murders, back in April.”

A frown pinched John’s brow, clearly remembering how gruesome a scene it had been. “You would, yeah,” he said cryptically. “No bowls of fruit for you.”

“Bowls of- Why would I draw bowls of fruit? We don’t even have any-”

John laughed, his eyes scrunched up adorably. Sherlock decided to let it go.

“I used to draw a lot more, in Uni, before… Before.” He resolutely did not look John in the eye, lest he see the pity he knew would be there, but kept his eye on the line of Mrs. Atwood’s blood-soaked Valentino pump. “Haven’t seen the point since but I had this old sketch pad lying around and-”

John interrupted, “Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.” Sherlock cocked his head, sure he’d heard that before. “You said that once, during a case, I forget which one. I liked it. It was strangely...poetic. For you, I guess.”

He hummed, still not looking up. Mrs. Atwood grew a matching set of legs and part of a ripped skirt before John spoke again.

“Not fair how talented you are.” He was falling asleep, turned toward Sherlock with his head pillowed on his right arm. “I used to play the clarinet in primary.”

Twenty seconds later John was dead to the world.

“If you’d followed the schedule Molly and I made…” He mumbled, not at all put out to have John posed next to him. Unaware of the perfect reference he’d gifted Sherlock with, John slept on as Sherlock flipped back to his original page. Instead of finishing the drawing he’d been working on, though now that he had John in front of him he had to admit it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, he started a new one.

John in respite was a softer thing, and yet the tiny line between his brows remained, as though he dreamt of Sherlock making a mess in the kitchen. Sherlock smiled to himself at the thought. The often called upon edge of John’s jaw took shape, the dip of his chin, the thin slash of his mouth. Here Sherlock stopped to study a bit longer than was decent but with John asleep and none the wiser it was hard to curb the desire.

The sun was coming up by the time he finished, the traffic growing heavy with morning commuters, even on a Sunday. Sherlock put the last fanning touch to John’s eyelashes, wishing he’d thought to buy colored pencils or charcoals to highlight John’s gold and silver hair, before closing the pad and tossing it on the table.

John grunted at the noise but merely snuggled closer to the back of the sofa.

If anyone saw Sherlock smiling softly at his flatmate the game would be up. Sherlock knew John would regret falling asleep as he was, twisted and still wearing his jacket, but he was loath to wake him just yet. Let them share the same quiet space for just a while longer.

***

The crook of his arm itched. Instinctively he moved to scratch it but what he ended up doing was smacking his flatmate on top of the head.

“Ugh, what,” John groaned into Sherlock’s stomach, wiping his drool off onto Sherlock’s thin cotton top, still mostly asleep.

Sherlock was wide awake. Terrifyingly awake. He looked down, even though he knew John was tucked up against him, his head pillowed against his ribs, just above the jut of his hip. His mouth gaped unattractively at John’s tufts of hair. He didn’t even remember falling asleep!

To make matters worse, he could hear Mrs. Hudson downstairs puttering around the foyer. And the door was hanging wide open.

Without thought Sherlock bolted.

“Jesus Christ!” John cried out at being displaced.

Sherlock didn’t care, Mrs. Hudson couldn’t see them like that. She’d get the wrong idea and never shut up. He desperately tossed his sleep wear off and traded it in for the standard, solidly comforting, suit. John grumbled to himself in the sitting room, words vague but obviously complaining of his decision to drink the night before. Hopefully he’d be hazy on the details on how he’d been woken up.

“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Hudson greeted John. Sherlock flinched even though he was well away from being caught out. “Oh, you didn’t sleep on the sofa, did you? Terrible for your back.”

John grumbled some more. Sherlock hesitated even longer, just in case John did remember laying together. He couldn’t bear to see the awkward avoidance technique John displayed whenever they got too close to...something.

“Did you know Sherlock could draw?” He heard John ask. Terror of a different kind suffused Sherlock at that. His notebook was still laying on the coffee table.

“No, I didn’t but I’m not surprised.” Her voice flitted around the sitting room, dusting most likely, damn her. “That boy could do anything he put his mind to, I’m sure.”

“Maybe he didn’t find the Reichenbach Falls, just painted another one,” John quipped.

Sherlock hid a snort behind his hand.

“Oh, you.” Mrs. Hudson tittered. “So what’s he drawing then?”

His eyes went wide, sure they were looking at his drawings. He marched out of his room.

“You know Sherlock. Crime scenes...” John’s voice trailed off and Sherlock knew it was too late. He got to the sitting room just in time to see John and Mrs. Hudson looking down at his open notebook, open to the pages filled with a sleeping John.

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson breathed softly. “Ohh.” She looked down at the drawings like he’d sketched a basket of puppies.

John looked them over in obvious confusion. Idiot.

He swept in and scooped the book out of John’s hands. John, looking startled and somewhat guilty, flinched and flung himself back into the sofa. Mrs. Hudson, of course, squawked at him for being rude. He ignored her in favour of escorting her toward the door.

“There’s nothing to be upset over, you silly thing. I had a beau do the same for me once upon a time. It’s quite romantic.”

Sherlock slammed the door in her face. And then marched to the kitchen to slam the second door for good measure.

“Sherlock,” John admonished, though with less bite than he might’ve under normal circumstances.

“Got to run. Um, case.”

“What?” John asked as Sherlock hopped into his shoes and flung his coat over his arm.

He could make something up but why bother. In reality he was going to look for a secluded spot in Regents and burn the stupid notepad until it qualified for his ongoing ash study.

“Wait. Sherlock, bloody wait for a second.”

The door was open, he could walk through it and know John wouldn’t bring the incident up again by the time he came back.

For some reason he stood in the doorway with his hand on the knob.

“If this is about the drawings, it’s fine. I don’t care.” Sherlock’s eyes closed. Again he had no idea why but these were not the words he wanted to hear. “It’s not like I think Mrs. Hudson was right. You know how she is, always thinking there’s something going on. Really. I get it.”

“You do?” It came out less like a question and more like a challenge.

“Well, sure. You’re too lazy to get up from the sofa and just drew what was in front of you,” he quipped with a good-natured chuckle.

Something in him snapped. Christ, here John was, letting him off the hook, and all he could think was - why? It was obvious. It had to be, Mrs. Hudson had spelled it out for him as plain as day, and yet, John, in his infinite capacity for burying the obvious when it came to Sherlock’s motivations, was going to brush it off like it meant nothing. How long could they do this, this ridiculous dance, wasn’t John as exhausted as he was?

He turned back to make his excuses only to find John staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

“Excellent,” Sherlock deadpanned. “I said all of that out loud, didn’t I?”

John nodded slowly, still not blinking.

“Well, I suppose it was bound to happen eventually.”

They stared at each other, both waiting for someone to break. John looked away first but only to glance down at the notebook still tucked under Sherlock’s arm, then slowly over at the sofa. Sherlock could see him piecing the clues together.

“I thought… Did I fall asleep on you?”

He didn’t answer but it was answer enough. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

John went on. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. But you, you stayed.”

“I didn’t mean to either. I mean, to fall asleep. I didn’t mean to...” As far as defenses went, it was fairly weak.

“Sherlock,” John drawled, confused and becoming distraught. “Is this… Should we talk-”

He felt his defenses kick back in, seeing John becoming conflicted. “Absolutely not. It was an accident and there’s nothing at all to discuss. Now, if you’re finished.” He turned to leave but John stopped him again.

“No, we’re not finished. It wasn’t just us falling asleep, Sherlock. You- Christ, you were doodling pictures of me while I slept, and then we had a damn cuddle together and now you’ve basically admitted I’ve been missing the obvious since day one, so, yeah, I’d say we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“That’s your problem.”

“My- _My_ problem?” John screeched, going red. “You seem to be missing the bit where you’ve basically been going about having a crush like a fourteen year old girl, and it’s somehow _my problem?_ ”

 _Punch him_ , his first thought suggested, but the outcome of that would land him flat on his back a second later, and though there was a small chance a fight would evolve into something altogether more appealing, he wouldn’t chance John becoming so upset he left.

So what then? Admit the truth? Lie? Stand there until John got fed up and stomped off?

He ran through several scenarios before coming to a decision.

“I’ve been in love with you for roughly the last twenty-five hundred days. I say roughly because I’m not sure when it started, but I’m sure that’s not the bit you’re interested in just now. I’ve kept this information to myself, baring what Mycroft has gleaned, or thinks he has, because I didn’t think it would be welcome. Not after… Well, everything. But you wanted to talk, so there it is. Do what you will.”

He didn’t wait for John’s reaction, though it was obvious when John didn’t stop him from stomping down the stairs that he didn’t feel compelled to continue their conversation.

The notebook lay forgotten by the doorway as his coat went around his shoulders like a cape and he fled the flat on foot, barring north. People practically leapt out of his way as he stormed up the pavement, probably do to the look on his face. His phone, which he hadn’t been aware was in his coat, buzzed away but was easily ignored. If John had something to say he should have said it before.

It was just after dusk by the time he stopped walking, and only then because his heels felt ready to explode inside his shoes. His internal map of the city said he’d managed nearly sixty-five km in ten hours, a roundabout with Baker Street at its epicenter. He’d made it back to Soho when he dropped onto a bench to get the weight off his feet. It was dark but still bustling with shoppers and tourists - simple idiots with little to nothing going on inside their heads.

He envied them, he really did.

The smell of degeneracy wafted past and Sherlock felt his eyes roll of their own accord.

“Nothing better to do I see. At what point did your underlings point out my misbehavior?”

Mycroft sat and pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, which took a bit from Sherlock’s sails. “You’d just reached Acton when I was made aware.” He handed the cigarette over, putting his own to his lips, before materializing a lighter.

Sherlock pulled in a lungful of blessedly hot, acrid air and felt a small bit of tension release. Though Mycroft was still sitting beside him so he didn’t get his hopes up too high for the rest of the night. “I suppose you expect me to talk?” He spit after a moment. “Should I spill my guts to you, big brother? Would it make me _feel better?_ ”

His brother said nothing. They shared a look, a quiet moment alone with their thoughts and their smoke, but that was all. Sherlock was almost ready to try another go at fighting when Mycroft got up and flagged down his car, which had been idling at the corner.

He had one foot in the door before he turned. _Here we go_ , Sherlock thought.

“Go home, Sherlock.”

He waited but when nothing else was forthcoming, he asked, “That’s it? That’s your grandiose advise?”

The arse simply smiled, thin lipped and condescending as always, and slid into his vehicle.

“God, I hate you.”

He stubbed out the cigarette and stood. Home it was then.

 

***

The flat was semi-lit, only the fire in the hearth giving off enough light to see by. John was nowhere to be found but evidence of his residence was obvious - shoes and coat by the door, take-away still sitting on the coffee table, he’d even brought the scotch out from the cupboard. Sherlock tried not to read into any of the evidence left behind, but if he were able to turn it off he’d not be half the man he was.

So, John wasn’t angry, hadn’t run screaming from the flat as soon as Sherlock was away. It didn’t mean they’d go on as before. He couldn’t envision any scenario in which John looked at him as before, didn’t imbue every word with ‘Sorry but I don’t feel the same, no hard feelings?’ He’d already looked at his phone, John hadn’t left any texts, not even a voicemail, merely let the phone ring a handful of times before giving up, so he had to assume John had waited patiently for Sherlock to return so they could talk. Of course, he’d felt the need to fortify himself with liquor before he could do it.

Well, he hoped John had drunk himself into a deep sleep and wouldn’t hear him cleaning up downstairs. He plucked a leftover egg roll from the box before dumping John’s noodles into the bin, knowing John didn’t reheat pasta. The glass tumbler was washed and put away, the scotch slid back into the cupboard next to the dust covered bottle of brandy Mrs. Hudson had brought up years before for some celebration or such. It wasn’t until he finished clearing off the table that Sherlock noticed his notebook lying on the floor at the foot of the sofa. He gingerly picked it up, only just curbing the instinct to fling it into the fireplace.

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, opening the front cover, flipping through the pages until he reached the damning evidence that had ruined everything.

They weren’t bad, objectively. Accurate at the very least. It was the softness of Sherlock’s portrayal of John, the obvious love he’d suffused the images with, that had given him away. Any artist worth their salt could tell he’d caressed the shaded areas of John’s face with his fingertips much longer than necessary.

He grunted in self-disgust and flung the notebook away. It smacked into the sofa and bounced back onto the floor, open at his feet. At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at, had to squint into the darkness, but the blatantly idiotic scrawlings were definitely not there when he’d left that morning. He bent and picked the notebook back up. Sure enough, he was looking at a child’s crude version of a storybook, complete with stick figure characters.

“What in god’s name…”

The first were two figures, seated at a table, though he had to guess at the setting, amateur as it was. There were little hearts all over the first’s head but in the next panel the figure was drawn with a frown, the hearts broken on the table top. Next was another crudely drawn version of a swimming pool, this time the figures were clearly battling a monster, eight legged with a nasty looking smile. Sherlock grinned to see John, the obvious illustrator, had drawn Sherlock as the sword wielding knight and himself as the princess. His heart beat like a drum in his chest when he scanned the next to see John’s version of Irene Adler. How he loved to see John’s jealousy, could roll around in it like a dog in the garden.

“That’s not very nice, John,” he whispered into the dark upon seeing the scribbled out moniker he’d given The Woman.

Nonetheless, he’d gotten his point across. Ms. Adler had been an interloper in their established dynamic and John was not as appreciative of her antics as Sherlock had been.

Next came two stick figures holding hands, tiny handcuffs holding them together. John had drawn more hearts over the scene. Sherlock’s bottom lip was chewed on in response.

It was almost a surprise to see but he’d drawn the two of them at St. Bart's, from John’s perspective, with Sherlock as a small figure atop the building. Here John was the one crying, little broken hearts scattered throughout. Seeing such a childish rendition of that tragic day did nothing to lessen the blow.

“I know,” he told the scene. “Me too.”

John then drew a panel that was nothing but ugly, black slashes in a rectangular box, his name the only clear space in the middle - an accurate portrayal of his time away, Sherlock was sure.

John’s version of their reunion was basically a tornado with arms, but still he included a few hearts, broken and whole both. He’d agree with that. Thankfully Mary was not included in the scene. He wasn’t so lucky with the next panel but it could hardly be helped, being the wedding and all. At least John managed to convey the hesitance he must have felt, the three of them standing side by side at the altar but with John looking at Sherlock instead of Mary. Sherlock wished he’d known then that John was wishing Sherlock had spoken up. If John only knew how close the words had been on his tongue that day.

He quickly scanned over the various scenes John had drawn of them together, more ugly broken hearts throughout again. The drug den, with a small needle sticking out of Sherlock’s arm, Sherlock with X’s for eyes in Magnussen's bedroom, the confrontation with Mary in Leinster Gardens, Sherlock shooting Magnussen, Sherlock leaving on the plane. So many broken hearts. It was a wonder John had even come back after Mary was carted off by Mycroft’s men, if this was what life with Sherlock had done to him.

But then John had drawn himself standing outside 221 with his bags, and lo, giant hearts over his head that mixed in with the gibberish notes he’d written that were meant to reflect Sherlock playing his violin by the window.

The last was a simple JW + SH written inside a heart. He supposed you couldn’t get more clear than that. But what was he meant to do with the information?

John coughed lightly behind him and Sherlock started guiltily, caught out, even though John had obviously meant for him to find the drawings.

“So,” John rocked nervously on his heels, hands behind his back, “what do you think? Museum worthy?”

Sherlock felt his lips tug to one side. He cleared his throat. “Not sure the Louvre would take them but…” He glanced up briefly and admitted, “I would frame them.”

“Yeah?” John lit up, grinning shyly.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed in agreement, trying like mad to play it cool. “I like the one with us handcuffed together.”

John took a few tentative steps forward, hand out for the book. Sherlock handed it over reluctantly. John turned the page and grinned brightly.

“Did you see these?” He flipped quickly, so fast Sherlock barely had time to see, but what he saw was enough. “The drunker I got, the more creative I got.”

“More drunk,” Sherlock corrected again, though his face heated in embarrassment and lust. Christ, how did crudely drawn stick figures engaging in random sex acts have the ability to turn him on? He supposed it was the figures in question. He reached out and pulled the top of the book away from John’s chest, pointing to a specific scene. “Which one is which here?”

John’s eyebrow rose, a look Sherlock had never seen directed at him before. “Wouldn’t you like to find out.”

The notebook was left on the sitting room floor, forgotten until the next morning, when Mrs. Hudson woke them with her squeals.

**Author's Note:**

> Yah, so I did like bare minimum of editing on this one, I'm just so hyped to have finished a fic I went ahead a uploaded it. If anyone finds mistakes, and you will I'm sure, feel free to let me know. Also feel free to contact me about anything else as well at [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)  
> Fun Fact: The title of this fic is also the name of my blog because it's awesome*  
> *The ACD quote, not my blog, my blog is lame.


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